The Other Barton Boy
by DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: Everyone knows the story of Hawkeye, how Clint Barton battled against the odds to eventually make it big in the world of superheroes; but he wasn't the only Barton in this world, and he wasn't the only one who suffered to get noticed...
1. Orphan

**AN: **So this is my take on how Barney became Trickshot. Had the urge to do a Barney-centric thing after finishing 'Fly, Little Birds', but decided to keep him true to character in this one. All my knowledge comes from basic scraps I picked up off various websites (namely Wikipedia and a few pictures posted on Tumblr), so if anything is drastically off-canon, please let me know and I'll put it right somehow.

Having said that, there are other non-universe characters you may or may not be familiar with popping up here and there, but they're just 'fillers' if you like (and they may make the plot more interesting/amusing in some places). Hope you enjoy the read anyway - Barney deserves so much more credit than what he gets!

* * *

The Other Barton Boy

**1. Orphan**

They were made to stand at the head of the table, side by side, so that the other kids could scrutinise them without interruption. Ten pairs of over-curious eyes bore into them, immediately judgemental and plotting, and even with the Matron stood at their backs the hatred was clear. "This is Charles Bernard Barton and Clinton Francis Barton," she said, laying a podgy hand on their shoulders. A few kids sniggered at the names as the little one turned round and tugged Matron's shirt.

"It's Barney and Clint," he told her solemnly. Matron smiled in understanding, but a few more kids snorted into their breakfasts. Barney glared at them.

They were put in separate rooms at first until they both made a fuss: Clint didn't want to be split from his brother, and Barney got into a fight with his roommate within an hour. In his defence, it was the other kid who'd started it, and only because Barney had refused to show him his Captain America cards. "No way was I letting him get his greasy hands on my cards!" he told Clint the night they were moved together. Clint stared wide-eyed at him, awed by his brother's ability to defend what was his.

The first few nights often saw Clint tossing and turning in his sleep, whimpering and crying as whatever plagued his dreams warped his reality. Sometimes he would wake, and Barney would wriggle over to let him slide into his bed; night terrors were harder to handle, but Barney learnt how to deal with them fairly quickly. Matron once asked him how he got Clint to calm down, but he refused to tell her. If the other kids knew he cuddled his little brother to sleep, they'd both be bullied mercilessly. Barney wasn't letting anyone hurt Clint the way their father had. "I'm looking after you now," he said; "Not Matron, not some stupid strangers who want to have a kid until they're bored – me, your big brother."

Sometimes keeping true to his words was hard, particularly when Clint got snapped up like he was a puppy by foster parents. When he went to stay with some people called the Brandts, Barney was more or less alone. The other kids didn't want to play with him, Matron got fed up of telling him off, and any adults who tried to talk to him were only given a burning glare in response. More than a few times he picked fights with other kids outside the home, bullies he knew from school. Nobody seemed too surprised (he heard Matron say that trouble "sticks to that boy like treacle"), and Barney was routinely sat in both Matron's and the head-teacher's office. "You're an attention seeker," one head-teacher told him, and Barney thought that was the most ridiculous thing he'd heard in his life. The last thing he wanted was other people's attention.

One day though, Clint came back. His arrival wasn't announced with a fanfare, but he had forgotten how noisy his little brother could be. The second he'd come barrelling into their room, launching himself at Barney without giving him time to breathe, the peace and quiet Barney had become accustomed to was shattered. Clint talked non-stop about the Brandts, how they'd had a proper house with a shiny car, how he'd had his own room, the huge meals he'd been cooked, all the trips they went on, the friends he'd made at school, the massive TV in the front room, having his own clothes, and the sleek new sword and shield set they'd bought him as a gift. Barney listened half-heartedly, and when Clint finally paused for breath he scoffed. "Yeah? If it was so great and they loved you so much, what are you doing back here?"

Clint faltered, expression slowly changing from excited to confused. He was still young, Barney realised, still naïve; they'd been in care for two years now, but apparently his little brother hadn't realised exactly what foster families were really like. It was obvious to Barney that adults couldn't be trusted, not ever. Maybe Clint was still dreaming of the life they never had.

Barney's first major fight came not long after Clint's return. The nightmares had come back with a vengeance, something that Barney blamed the Brandts for, and one in particular ended up causing more chaos than usual. At first, Barney thought he'd been dreaming too: he could hear someone screaming, and he found himself thinking of their mother, how she used to scream when their father came home and she sent him and Clint outside to play. Then he remembered that it was just him and Clint now, and sat bolt upright. Over in the other bed, Clint was struggling against his duvet. Somehow the blanket had cocooned him, trapping his arms and legs and resting over his eyes.

With a slight growl, Barney threw off his own blanket and abandoned his own bed to help. Though he'd sort of missed Clint, he'd begun to enjoy getting a full night of uninterrupted sleep. "Clint," he said, tugging at the duvet so he could free himself. "Clint, calm down. It's just your blanket." But Clint scrambled backwards fast, smacking his head on the wall behind him – and then he started to cry. Rolling his eyes, Barney sat next to him, wrapping him in a hug when he crawled over. "What happened?" he asked, trying to keep from leaving him where he sat to go back to his own bed.

"I hit my head!" Clint wailed.

"I know that. I meant your nightmare."

He hiccupped loudly. "I was with – Mr and Mrs Brandt – and they took me to the park – and then they said they were going – and they didn't listen when I said wait – and then Daddy was there – and he shouted at me – and – and –" He broke off into a fresh wave of tears, and Barney sighed.

"Grown ups suck, Clint," he told him. "People like Dad and Matron don't love us. We're just in the way to them."

"My head hurts," Clint moaned.

"Where?" He pointed to the spot and Barney inspected it, like he remembered their mother doing a long time ago. "There's nothing there, you're fine."

"Hey Barton!"

Barney squinted as their bedroom light was turned on, feeling Clint bury his face into his shoulder. In the doorway to their room stood a boy named Kevin; he was a bit older than Barney, skinny and greasy like most of the care home kids. He also looked mad. "Yeah?"

"Make your stupid brother stop crying already!"

He stood up. "Or what?"

Kevin sneered at him. "Or I'll make him stop."

Barney stepped forward. "Really? How?"

Leaning around him, Kevin looked directly at Clint. "Shut up!" he yelled, and watching his little brother flinch violently on the bed was enough. Shoving him out of their room with all his might, Barney was satisfied when Kevin's own head cracked against the corridor wall. Following him out, he hit the other boy hard in the side of his head like he'd once seen his dad do, pushing him onto the floor when he doubled over. He tried to kick him in the side, but Kevin seemed to have regained himself and lunged for Barney's legs. As his feet were knocked out from underneath him, he felt his forehead connect sharply with the corner of the wall, and after a few confusing seconds of tangled limbs and alternating between kicking and scrambling, he found himself on his back with Kevin on top. One bony fist smashed into his nose, but he ignored the pain and reached for an ear instead, pulling it sharply and digging his stubby nails in. Kevin's knee drove into his stomach, and that hurt a lot. He punched the older boy again, hoping to inflict the same degree of damage that he had suffered – and then suddenly Kevin was lifted off him, and hands were on his own shoulders as he climbed to his feet. He strained against them, kicking against thin air when he was hauled up, only giving in when he saw Kevin similarly manhandled downstairs.

Both boys were in serious trouble. Kevin had several bruises on his face as well as a bloody ear, but it was Barney who looked worse – blood trickled from a gash on his forehead and his nose, and he could feel a bruise forming on his stomach. Nobody seemed to care that Kevin had started it, nor that Barney had been defending his brother. They were both scolded for waking up almost the entire house, scaring the younger children and hurting each other (not that Barney admitted to hurting). Though their 'wounds' were tended to, their punishment was dealt out almost immediately: cleaning duties for two weeks, and no trips until they apologised to each other. It was fairly obvious the latter wouldn't happen for a while, but Barney didn't care.

When they were finally sent back to their rooms, Barney was hardly surprised to see Clint still awake, even if someone had tried to put him back to sleep. His little brother watched him in the dark as he trudged wordlessly to his bed, sliding back under the covers without so much as a grunt at the dull flare of pain in his abdomen. He lay on his back in silence for two whole seconds, then turned his head in Clint's direction and beckoned him over. He shifted onto his side as Clint clambered in, finding the warmth of his small body somewhat soothing against his stomach. "Are you okay Barney?" came the whispered concern.

"Yeah." Clint's hair tickled his chin as he spoke. "Are you?"

"Yeah." He didn't sound it.

"Kevin's an idiot. I won't let him yell at you again."

"Thank you Barney."

"It's okay."

"Love you."

"You too Clint."

* * *

The head-teacher's office was like every other head-teacher's office he'd ever sat in: rectangular, grey, an odd painting hung on one wall, pointless plant sat smugly on a polished wooden desk alongside a gleaming name plaque, sleek desktop and semi-matching-phone, foreboding file cabinet or two in the corners, a few chairs. The chairs were the only thing that changed – sometimes they were more comfortable. Slouched as he was, Barney was sat in one of the less comfortable seats he'd ever been inclined to take, and he blamed it on the plastic. All the chairs in this school were plastic. That said a lot.

Mr McGuiney sighed at him over his spectacles. "This is the fifth time this semester you've been sent to me, Barton. Frankly, I'm getting tired of it."

"Maybe you should retire then Sir," he retorted with a smirk. It hurt his nose a little, but he'd gotten good at hiding pain.

"Any more cheek like that and we won't even discuss your staying here, son – am I understood?" Barney said nothing, just worked his jaw and tried not to roll his eyes. "Good. Now, you know what I'm going to ask, so go ahead."

"Wilson started it –"

"Of course he did."

"He should've kept his mouth shut!"

"But you shouldn't have responded with aggression."

"He provoked me!"

"You rose to it."

"Well the teachers weren't doing anything about it!"

"That doesn't give you the right to hit another boy, Barton."

Barney threw up his hands. "Why do you always take the other kid's side?"

McGuiney pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not taking sides here, but our conversations have always run like this, right from the first incident."

"Which was still Alvers' fault," he grumbled.

The head-teacher leaned forward. "It's never your fault, is it?" His response was a glare. "Barton, have you ever considered letting your brother handle his own situations?"

Barney scoffed. "Clint's still a kid. He doesn't realise what assholes people can be."

"Language!" McGuiney barked. As he turned to answer the desk phone, Barney allowed himself an eye roll and adjusted his position on the chair. The hard back was hell on his bruises, but he'd never once let an adult see him hurting, something he'd tried to teach Clint. "Hello?... Alright, send him in." The receiver slid back into place. "This talk isn't over yet, Barton, but for now it will have to be postponed. I'm going to ask you to do something, and I want your word that you'll do as told, okay?"

He shifted, staring back uncertainly. "Like what?"

"Don't speak unless I ask you a question, and when you do, keep it calm, concise, and clean. Can you manage that?"

As the office door was opened behind him, Barney clenched his jaw and avoided McGuiney's gaze. He jerked a nod as the next guest slumped into an identical chair beside him, keeping his eyes anywhere but on that now occupied chair. The door closed, and McGuiney polished his spectacles. "Wilson I'm sure you know why you're here."

"I do Sir, but I'm a little… shall we say confused? I mean, I knew you'd drag me in here sooner or later but at the same time as Barton? Seriously? With all due respect, I think maybe you need to retire." McGuiney closed his eyes as he repressed a groan, and Barney smirked humourlessly. Him and Wade fricking Wilson agreeing on something? He was so looking for flying pigs when he got out of here.

"The reason the two of you are here together is because you each owe an apology to the other."

"But I have nothing to apologise for."

"Wilson –"

"Barton's the one who needs to apologise."

"And he will, but –"

"Yeah, in your dreams," Barney muttered. McGuiney heard him.

"Did I speak to you, Barton? No? Then stay quiet. Same for you, Wilson," he added sharply as the other boy opened his mouth again, "I want this to go quickly, because I have far better things to be doing than wasting my time sorting out your differences."

Wade pouted. "I feel unloved, Sir."

"Fag!" Barney coughed, doubling over dramatically despite the pain that surged up his back. He didn't need to look to know that Wade was staring daggers at him (or attempting to anyway – it was hard to do that with a black eye), and McGuiney looked almost murderous when he casually asked for a cup of water.

Expression fixed at stern, the head-teacher leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers over his stomach. "You boys are both expected to apologise to one another, no buts. If you don't do it now, you'll stay in the detention room until you've both said it – and meant it. And if either of you think you can sit it out until the staff go home, then think again, because we have a meeting tonight. We'll be here for a very long time, and I'm sure none of my colleagues would have any issues supervising the pair of you."

Barney thought they would, but kept it to himself. Wade? "Again, with all due respect Sir, I kinda doubt that. I mean, it's Barton; how many teachers actually –"

"Finish that sentence, Wilson, and Barton will be let off the hook." The boy closed his mouth with an audible snap, and Barney knew that had to have hurt a bit. He landed a pretty good punch there. McGuiney glanced between them. "Apologies. Now, or later. Your choice."

There was exactly ten seconds of silence before Wade cracked. Barney had been planning on it. The kid couldn't withstand ten seconds of silence, regardless of the situation. "Sorry I didn't leave your brother alone Barton." McGuiney nodded, apparently satisfied with the meagre level of sincerity, and turned to Barney.

With two pairs of expectant eyes on him, he caved. "Sorry I beat you up."

Collecting up some papers on his desk, the head-teacher explained, "You'll both attend lunchtime detentions for the coming week. In addition, I expect the two of you to stay away from each other if you can't be civil, class projects aside. Wilson you need to keep that tongue of yours in check, and Barton, this was your last chance; if I see you in here again for anything other than good reasons, you can consider your place at this school forfeited. You're both dismissed."

They left without a word, Barney satisfied to see Wilson limping slightly as they moved. He said nothing for the rest of the day until Clint caught up with him, asking about his punishment, how much 'damage' Wade had done, and telling him that he hadn't needed to step in in the first place. "Oh, so you were gonna take care of it?"

His little brother frowned. "Barney, I'm grateful for your help, but you got hurt when you didn't have to."

He kicked a stone. "Like I was gonna let Wade Wilson lay into you. And he would, Clint. Guy's a douche."

"I can stand up for myself!"

"Yeah, I'll believe that when I see it," Barney chuckled. He was still looking for a flying pig.

Whatever plans he'd had for when they got back to the home were crushed when he found himself practically manhandled into yet another office – Matron's. Again, he'd been in here more times than he cared to number, most often looking like a defiant boxer in the last four years than the other kids Matron 'dealt' with. In hindsight, he should've expected it; of course Mr bleeding 'McWeenie' had phoned. Damn straight he'd told Matron everything that had happened. Obviously he was going to be punished here, too. Ten minutes after entering (only so short a time because he was tired and pissed off and wanted to sulk in his room so refrained from answering back), and with the familiar phrase of "Charles Barton, you are not a child anymore," fading from memory, Barney acknowledged the thought that out of everyone who'd seen him since his punch-up, Clint was the only one who'd asked if he was okay. He mentally shrugged, deciding that was proof that pigs sadly weren't flying yet.

Though he'd never been especially enamoured with the idea of flying, Barney found himself thinking about what it meant: corny stuff like freedom, right? No boundaries or limits, no-one telling him where to go, maybe even a sense of peace. Clint liked birds, something their mother had left with him (maybe the only thing he truly, happily remembered about her). Barney remembered a time when their father had been out, and she'd sat with them outside. Whilst he dug amongst the mud and grime to find insects, Clint had sat in her lap and watched as she pointed to the various winged creatures that crossed their vision. His little brother had always seen ones that she missed, making her laugh when he shouted loud enough to startle them out of the bushes (he would give anything to remember that sound again). The ones Clint had always been awestruck by were the birds of prey, though, so very high and far away. To Barney, they'd been nothing more than silhouettes, but Clint would ask about their colourings or the shape of their wings.

Because Clint had always been special. It was why she'd wanted to protect him, why she'd told Barney to protect him, too. Oh, she'd looked after both of them, their mother, but always their joint priority was his brother. Now he was all Clint had… and maybe Clint was all he had.

* * *

"Are you sure about this?"

"That's the fifth time you've asked."

"I know, but…"

"Course I'm sure. Never been more sure about anything."

"Seriously?"

"Well, maybe I'm more sure that our dad was a dick, but this is a close second."

Looking beside him, Barney saw Clint's face pinched with worry in the dark. Convincing him to go along with this hadn't been easy, but he knew how to push the right buttons when necessary. Making the circus sound better than the home hadn't been hard anyway. Slip in a few 'Mom would want' guilt-trips and bam, Clint was sold. They'd packed, waited until nightfall, then snuck out through the bathroom window. Cake.

"I just don't get it," Clint said again, voice hushed even though there was no-one but them at the bus stop. "If you were unhappy, why didn't you tell someone?"

Barney grimaced. "Because nobody listens to people like us Clint. They think we just do shit for attention, that everything we say is exaggerated, or a downright lie. You can't trust someone who doesn't trust you back."

His brother chewed his lip. "I trust you."

The statement was so Clint that Barney couldn't help the half-grin that stretched up his face. "I trust you too, little brother," he said, ruffling Clint's hair. He turned back to the road, bouncing on his toes a little. "People take flight when they want freedom, Clint." He paused; "It's just me and you again, right?"

When he glanced back, Clint was smiling. "Like always."

The approaching bus lights made him look like he was glowing with excitement, and feeling that sensation work its way up his body, Barney nodded. "Always."


	2. Carnie

The Other Barton Boy

**2. Carnie**

They were made to stand in front of the manager, shoulder to shoulder, so that he could get a good look at them both. He had shrewd eyes, matted grey hair, and a road-weary, weather-beaten look about him that spoke volumes about this guy. Barney felt Clint shift uncomfortably next to him whenever that cold gaze switched to him, but Barney knew better. This man – Carson – was the definition of streetwise. If he thought they were weak, he wouldn't take them, so when it was his turn to be 'assessed' he squared his shoulders and met those eyes head on (not disrespectfully, though).

Carson grunted. "Where'd you find 'em?" he asked the man stood behind them.

"Wandering round the trailers. Biggun said they was looking for you, wanted a job."

"And you brought 'em straight here?"

"Thought you'd wanna decide yourself."

Hands on his hips, Carson went back to studying the two boys. The silence rubbed against Barney's skin, and he began to worry the old man wouldn't take them on after all. He desperately wanted to plead their case, to appeal to his sympathetic side even though he likely didn't have one, but knew that doing so would only decrease their chances of being taken on. He couldn't risk that. After what felt like an eternity, Carson jerked his chin at him. "What can you do?"

"Most things except cook," Barney told him. "We'll learn stuff if we have to."

"Gimme an example."

"I'm pretty good at fixing things, and Clint can climb like a monkey."

"Why would I need a fix-it kid and a monkey?"

Barney shrugged. "Cheaper to have someone fix things on site, right? And Clint can go places bigger guys can't." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Clint give him an anxious look, but pretended to ignore it. He hoped he wasn't getting his brother into a bad situation (but they were desperate).

Carson mulled over Barney's words, then let out a short sigh. "I could use someone like the little guy," he said, gesturing to Clint, "but you kid? I've already got a handyman. What would I need you for?"

Barney's thoughts were frantic. He couldn't be separated from Clint, not when the circus was his idea in the first place. It was out of the question. "Two handymen are better than one, aren't they? Things would get fixed quicker! Your guy could teach me stuff, make me better than I am –"

"Please don't split us up, Sir." Both Barney and Carson turned in surprise to Clint, who had been silent since the moment the brothers had been found.

Something softened in the manager's gaze – not by much, but it was still noticeable. "Why shouldn't I, kid? I don't wanna take on more mouths to feed if they ain't making themselves useful."

"Because Barney's good at lots of things – he's good at learning lots of things, too. And if you don't take him, then you don't get me, because we stick together. Always have, always will." Watching his little brother straighten himself up, hardening his expression even though he still showed a hint of fear, declaring his loyalty, Barney's pride in him swelled. He thought back to what Clint had said not so long ago, about being able to stand up for himself. Maybe he was right.

Carson smirked. "Gutsy monkey, aren't you?" He looked between them both a few more times, glancing at the guy behind them once more, then folded his arms over his chest. "You've got one week to prove yourselves. You screw up before then, you're out. Got it?" It wasn't what Barney had hoped for, but it was something. They shared a glance, knowing neither of them would be slacking off anything for the foreseeable future.

* * *

"… and then Swordsman jumped right over him, threw two knives, and they landed perfectly either side of Trick Shot's arrow!"

"Uhuh," Barney grunted around the blade in his mouth. One of the performers, Jacques Duquesne, had broken a throwing knife, and after Barney had fixed one previously for him he decided to always pass them his way. Apparently Barney handled them better than Harrison, the other fix-it guy. He was trying to smooth the broken edge on the hilt of the knife, but Clint had come back from watching Duquesne train and perched himself on the table corner before launching into an overly-detailed account of how awesome Swordsman and Trick Shot were. It was a little irritating.

"They're so badass, Barney," he crowed wistfully. "You should come and see them sometime!"

He removed the blade from between his teeth, licking the corners of his mouth habitually (the first time he'd held a knife there, he'd cut himself without realising. One of the young contortionists had freaked out when she saw him with blood dribbling down his chin, and hadn't stopped calling him Vampy since). "The Big Top's not for us, Clint," he chided half-heartedly, reaching for the solder iron. "Besides, your commentary's given me a pretty good idea of how 'badass' they are on its own."

"But you haven't seen them, Barney! They just get better and better!"

"Yet the word badass has been used to describe them for the last six months."

Clint rolled his eyes. "See, this is why you need to get out. You're getting grumpy fixing things all the time! Leave it to Harrison and come and have fun."

"We aren't here to have fun, we're here to work."

His brother slipped off the surface corner, staring at him in disbelief. "You told me when we left it'd be fun!"

"Yeah, well I had to say something to get you to come with me."

There was a long pause as Clint processed that. "So you lied to me?"

"Your brother didn't lie, Monkey." Both boys looked up as none other than Swordsman himself stepped into their trailer, an amused look tugging at the corners of his mouth. "He just doesn't believe his own words, that's all." Clint's eyes bugged.

"I'm almost done with the blade," Barney told Duquesne, reaching for a strip of solder wire. "It might be a bit shorter than the others. Does that matter?"

Jacques leaned over his shoulder, inspecting his work. "Can you get it the same size?"

"Maybe. Have anything for me to go by?" The carnie pulled out another throwing knife from somewhere, laying it next to the broken one, and Barney nodded. Clint stared, entranced by the design on the blade.

"What's it mean?" he asked.

Duquesne chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Harrison's wife was Gypsy before she kicked the bucket," he explained. "Helped her husband out from time to time. Made me that one on my birthday. Couldn't tell you what it means, though."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I don't fucking know either, Monkey." Monkey was Clint's circus nickname given to him by the other carnies, who found it funny to always find him scampering up into a high place for a better view of something. Barney didn't have a nickname – he was still just Barton.

"Can I have a look?" Jacques pulled out another one and handed it over. Clint turned it in his hands, noting the symmetry and weight balance that his brother had pointed out to him the first time Swordsman had broken a knife. "How do you throw it?"

"What, you never played catch before, little orphan?" Jacques laughed, and Clint scowled at him. "It ain't that hard – here. Hold it like this."

Barney listened as Jacques coached Clint behind him, keeping his eyes on the soldering he was working on. He didn't mind that his brother was getting friendly with the performer – they needed all the sponsors they could get, even if Carson had kept them on for so long – but he was concerned about Clint breaking something. Sure, he wasn't bothered about having to fix things all the time, but it was repetitive, and kept him occupied longer than he really liked. Harrison was shipping all his work onto him, he just knew it, and the last thing he needed was his little brother causing more problems just because he didn't know when to keep his head down.

There was a soft 'thunk', and Barney looked up sharply. A rough target had been drawn on the wall in black felt-tip, and one of Jacques knives lay on the floor below it. A white nick had been made at the edge of the bull's-eye. Swordsman whistled. "Damn, Monkey, where'd you learn to throw like that?"

Clint shrugged. "I haven't. Did I do good?"

"Good? Kid, lack of muscle aside, I ain't seen a grown man throw that good on his first try, let alone some pre-teen monkey!" He retrieved the knife, handing it back with a "Try again."

This time, Barney watched as Clint adjusted his stance, raised the knife, poked his tongue out, and threw. It still didn't stick in the wall despite the added force put behind it, but the nick in the black markings showed that he had been within inches of hitting dead centre again. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, Barney would have accused Duquesne of exaggerating. Clint turned back to the older man. "Like that?"

For a moment, Jacques said nothing. Then he shifted. "Run to the Big Top. Go see if anyone's in there," he said, patting Clint on the shoulder as he scurried out. "You know he was that good?" he asked Barney once the door knocked shut.

Attention back on his soldering, Barney shrugged. "He could always see the hawks," he mumbled.

"Hawks?"

He nodded. "They'd be up high, but he'd always ask why they were a certain colour or something." Jacques made a noise of interest, then left without another word. That hurt a little, but he brushed it aside and kept working. When he finished, he took the blades straight to the Big Top on the off-chance Swordsman was still there. He found him, along with Buck Chisholm – a.k.a. Trick Shot – and his brother. Both men were watching as Clint struggled with one of Chisholm's bows, and didn't notice Barney until he was stood next to them. They praised him on his work with the knife, then sent Clint back with him to their tiny trailer; the way Clint babbled non-stop about Trick Shot's bow, Barney knew something had happened.

And he was right – from that day on, Clint began training with Jacques and Buck, apparently impressing them a fair amount. Harrison was commissioned to make him a bow of his own, and Barney had never seen his brother so excited (the Brandts had given him the wrong toy all those years ago, he thought). Days became different for both of them: whereas earlier Clint had either run errands or watched the stars train whilst Barney worked or delivered fixed goods, now Clint trained with the stars too, and the brothers rarely saw one another. Clint would come back to their trailer after dark, clearly exhausted, and proceed to ramble on about his session with Chisholm and Duquesne (always avoiding the parts where he'd missed – the details were as obvious as the purple marks on his arms and back). Barney went to sleep with a headache more than he liked.

It wasn't just Buck and Jacques that suddenly seemed to take a shine to Clint. Barney noticed a lot of the other performers talked about him, laughing at something 'adorable' he'd done or said. Sometimes the people he mended for asked him how his brother was doing, and after a while Barney took to responding to those questions with a shrug and a "Not sure. Don't see him much." The nickname Monkey was heard less and less, and one day it was completely replaced.

"I'm gonna be in the show!"

Not even batting an eyelid as his brother tripped over his own quiver, Barney nodded. "Good for you. About time they actually made that training mean something."

Dusting himself down, Clint continued: "They're gonna make me a costume and everything, one to match Buck's I think. I'll be like a mini version of him, but Carson said I've got my own charm so I'll still be me. Oh yeah – and I get a stage name!"

"Yeah?"

"Yep. You are now in the presence of… The Amazing Hawkeye!"

He couldn't help snorting. "What, you some bird-boy hybrid or something?"

Clint's face fell. "No, it's just that I see like a hawk." There was no reply. "Aren't you happy for me, Barney?"

Barney let the walkie-talkie he was piecing together drop into his lap. "Yeah. I'm thrilled for you, little brother. Way to go."

Unfortunately, it wasn't bought. "What's up with you?"

"Headache."

"Again?"

"Yeah."

"Shouldn't you see someone about that? I mean, you get them a lot –"

"Maybe because I have a kid brother who doesn't shut up about his new fucking toy whenever I see him."

This was the first break Barney would later realise; the way his brother stepped back in shock, how he suddenly became so very quiet, how he didn't even pick up his bow that night like he normally did. The rift wasn't mended until the morning, when Barney promised to watch his act before hurting himself laughing when Clint's outfit was finally ready. He went, though, and was stunned by what his little brother had learnt in just over a year – the kid never missed a shot, not from anywhere, and easily kept up with the older men he performed alongside. Hawkeye may not have been the main part of the trio, but he was by far the crowd favourite. They celebrated that night, the whole show cast, and when there was no-one nearby and Clint asked him how he'd done Barney was drunk enough to smile and say, "Not bad, little bro. Not bad." He couldn't remember if Clint had been pleased with that or not.

* * *

"You know what I think?"

Lying back on the bed, Barney blew out the smoke from his cigarette, watching it disappear into thin air like it had never existed. "What?"

Alizeh stepped out of her tiny bathroom, now wearing a black camisole and knickers. "Samuel Sullivan? He's getting too big for his boots."

Barney shrugged, flicking ash onto the bed covers. "How so?"

"Haven't you noticed? He's bossy."

"Everyone's bossy."

"Not like him."

"Guess not."

Raising an arm over her head, the contortionist continued to rant even as she worked her muscles. "I mean, he's everywhere! You can't escape him! And when he does catch you, nothing he has to say is important, or so urgent that it can't wait. And things that should take two minutes, they take twenty with him! Like, doesn't he realise that nobody cares?"

"Uhuh." He watched her stretch appreciatively, wrapping her hands around her ankles before letting one go and raising her leg to point her toes at the ceiling. She caught him staring, and grinned at him upside-down.

"You like?"

His returning smile was sly and one-sided. "We do."

She giggled, relaxing that leg and repeating the action with the other. "Well I'm afraid you'll have to pass on the message: no more."

He groaned. "Come on, Alizeh!"

"No!"

"Why not?"

She straightened up, smirking at him over her shoulder. "Because it's funny to see you suffer."

"Ha fucking ha," he spat, scowling at her. "Thought you Mexicans liked doing it more than once."

Mouth open, she turned to face him, hands on (beautifully curved) hips. "Are you calling me a whore?"

"No, I'm calling you Mexican."

"Well that's a definite no, now!"

His ears pricked up, and he mentally slapped himself. "Wait - you mean I actually had a chance of getting some again?"

"Until a few seconds ago... Maybe, yes."

Barney sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Damn you, girl." Next thing he knew, the bed was moving beneath him, and a warm weight settled comfortably across his hips. Moving his hand away, he was greeted with the sight many men dream of.

"Eyes up," Alizeh ordered, and tapped his chin when he didn't avert his gaze. "Apologise."

"What for?"

"For slighting me."

"I didn't slight you – it was you who thought I called you a whore."

"Well then, I'll have to kick you out like this." She rolled her hips then, making Barney gasp and hiss a curse or two. Thank God he hadn't put his jeans back on yet.

"Alright! I'm sorry for slighting you, Alizeh," he said at last. "Just… Don't force me out in this state. If anyone sees –" He stopped mid sentence as she plucked his cigarette from his fingers, took a drag, then leaned forward to give him a shotgun kiss, her breath hot against his lips.

"No-one'll see," she murmured, then grinned. "Come on, Vampy – let's take care of this."

This thing between Barney and Alizeh had been going on for roughly a year now, although neither of them was keeping track. It wasn't a Relationship – feelings were strictly sidelined, and PDA was a big no-no. It wasn't that they wanted to keep it secret, just that they didn't want to make a big deal out of it; so no-one was too surprised to see Barney leaving Alizeh's caravan, and he almost got away without incident.

"Barton!"

Groaning inwardly, Barney tried to feign deafness and kept walking. Maybe, if the Powers That Be were feeling generous, he'd turn invisible, and be able to slip –

"Barton, there's something we need to discuss."

Dammit. "What do you want, Sullivan?"

The least popular man in the circus appeared beside him, already in step. "We need to talk about the balance pole you're supposed to have fixed for the Greek twins."

"Now?"

"Why hasn't it been finished?"

"I dunno, because I have shitloads to do and it's Harrison's job anyway."

"He told me it was yours."

"Yeah, he says everything's mine."

"I just don't see why it's taking you so long. From what I understand, it's a simple weight adjustment procedure –"

"You know how it's done, you go do it."

"Why haven't you done it yet?"

"I told you, I've got other shit to do!"

"Sleeping with a fellow performer is not –"

Barney stopped in his tracks, whirling round to grab Sullivan by his lapels. "Think very carefully about what you just said, Sullivan," he growled, "then bugger off." He shoved him away, stalking off before any more could be said. Everyone could see it now: he was in a bad mood. Fucking Sullivan; Alizeh was right. 'Simple procedure'. 'Fellow performer'. Jesus!

The caravan was, thankfully, empty when he got back. The bow and quiver were gone, and a scrawled note explained something about 'extra training', so Barney helped himself to a pop tart and grabbed his carving knife, the little figurine he was sculpting with it, before falling ungraciously onto his bed in the corner of the trailer. One of the trapeze artists had a toddler, and when he was bored Barney would roughly carve things for him – this one was a jester. He worked on it all afternoon, forgetting about Alizeh, forgetting about Sullivan, forgetting about what he should've been working on, until the door opened. A cursory glance told him it was his brother, which was to be expected, so he went back to etching details onto the jester's front. "Where you been?" he asked, somewhat accusatory.

"Training," Clint mumbled, standing in front of the couch. "Left a note."

"Oh." He continued to whittle away, waiting for the day's account so he could tune out like he normally did. He wasn't even sure Clint knew he blocked him out, or if he did and just said it anyway, because Clint didn't like silence hanging between them apparently. Said he missed spending time with his brother. So far, Barney had refrained from telling him that it was Clint who willingly spent time away from Barney, and that it was probably better that way. Five minutes later, though, he found himself marvelling at just how well he'd tuned out this time. All he could hear was his knife against the wood, soft and…

Looking up from the jester, Barney was a little surprised to see Clint still stood in front of the couch, quiver on his back, bow in hand, head drooped slightly. Shadowed as his brother was by the lack of light, there wasn't anything immediately obvious. Perhaps he'd passed out standing up. "Clint."

He noticed the small jerk of his head, like he'd flinched. "Yeah?" So not asleep.

"What's up?"

"I…" There was a long pause. "I can't take off my quiver."

Somehow, Barney refrained from laughing. Just. "Why not?" Shadow-Clint shook his head, swayed, and that's when Barney decided this may be more serious than he thought. He abandoned the jester and knife. "Clint, what is it?"

"Nothing," Clint mumbled, even as the lights were turned on and Barney's eyebrows soared.

"Holy shit!"

He knew that, every now and then, Clint's mentors would rough him up a bit if he missed a shot or under-performed. It happened, and Clint got over it – it was just a bruise, after all; but Barney had never seen his brother look like a fricking punch bag before: a dark bruise on his jaw, split lip, swollen nose, the darkest black eye he'd ever seen, hair all over the place, and too many small cuts on his arms, all surrounding more big purple patches the likes of which Barney had hoped never to see again since childhood. It was as if Clint had been dragged through a concrete bush.

It was one of Barney's old nightmares come true.

Barney was on his feet in an instant, holding his brother at arms length, mouth still agape. He cut the strap of Clint's quiver to get it off his back, concerned by the lack of complaint that should have garnered him, and prised the bow from shaking fingers before grabbing a random cloth and wrapping it round a handful of ice. Encouraging his brother to sit down, he stuck the makeshift icepack onto the shiner (ignoring the tightening of his chest when Clint's face screwed up, a hiss escaping between his teeth) and finally asked the burning question. "What the fuck, Clint?"

Keeping his head low, Clint shrugged. "I messed up."

"By what, shooting a fucking tiger?"

"No –"

"So explain!"

Clint sighed, wincing slightly, and Barney wondered about the condition of his ribs. "Jacques was in a bad mood. He lost a lot in a bet recently, so he'd gotten drunk to try and forget it, but it just made him worse. Every time I said or did something that annoyed him, he uh…" He swallowed. "Lashed out."

"And Buck did nothing?"

"Buck's ill. Was just me and Jacques. Had to learn something new, and I wasn't quite getting it."

"So he laid into you?" Clint nodded, and Barney ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck!"

"Barney, it's okay."

"Okay? The hell it's okay, Clint! I mean have you seen yourself? You look like shit! He has no right to do that to you!" He removed the ice, tilting his brother's face so he could get a better look at his injuries. "What else?"

"Nothing, this is –"

"Clint."

His brother's eyes were filled with something familiar. "I think… I think I have a broken rib, maybe just cracked… and a few bruises on my back."

"Stay still." Using his crafting knife again, Barney cut away Clint's shirt (once more unnerved by the lack of protest), ready to expect the worst. There were only two bruises, it transpired: one on his back, and an ugly one on his torso that Barney was sure indicated a damaged rib. When he touched the skin Clint inhaled sharply, grimacing and tightening his fists by his sides; and that was when Barney recognised what he saw in his brother's eyes.

He stood suddenly, dropping ice all over the floor, raking his fingers over his scalp. The whole situation was bullshit. They'd been free of this for ten years now. They weren't in people's way. They weren't treated like kids who didn't know better. They were part of a – but then again, had they ever really known a family that didn't hurt them? It was just typical that their most recent semblance of happiness resulted in this. The world was fucking with them.

Barney had never felt so angry.

Storming out of the caravan, he barely heard the tremor in Clint's voice as he asked, "Where are you going?" followed by a panicked "Barney!" He had no idea where he was going, having never been able to reach that thought. In fact, his thoughts seemed to be stuck on an endless, furious loop: Duquesne had hurt his brother; Clint had lied about standing up for himself; Barney hadn't looked after him; nothing would be done about it. So wrapped up in this cycle was he that he only realised it had started raining when he knocked on a caravan door. The water broke through the reverie he was in, washing away his defences, and leaving him confused and shaking in front of the plain, dirt-white door. He was breathing as if he'd been running – had he been running? The last thing he remembered was Clint's eyes. He clenched his fists at another flare of anger. Why had he been so afraid?

"This is a little late for you, isn't it?" The warm voice brought him back from the land of red, as did her tanned skin, her long black hair, framed by the light from her home… Alizeh frowned. "Barney?"

It took him a while to find his voice. "Can – can I...?" She nodded, stepping aside to let him in.

* * *

Needless to say, Barney's attempts to seek justice for Clint's treatment amounted to nothing; Carson refused to intervene, using the excuse that Duquesne's methods were Duquesne's business, and that a lot of performers went through the same thing, some longer than others, and even Chisholm was wary of stepping in. Thankfully, Clint never came back from training looking so battered again, only sporting the occasional bruise every few weeks. He was becoming something of a star attraction, the kid who could hit any and every target, and when his training was finally switched from Duquesne to Chisholm, part of a compromise on a bet gone wrong between the two, Barney realised they only saw him as little more than a puppet to make their acts look better.

Circus life, though, had never been so perfect – all the acts were at their best, money was rolling in, they were relatively well received wherever they went, and Carson had little to complain about besides his disappearing 'youth'. Barney was still a handyman, still not as skilled as old Harrison but he put twice the effort in, even if he only got half the praise he thought he deserved. People continued to talk to him about Clint, and he continued to tune them out, sometimes going to Alizeh's to blow some steam in one way or another. They still weren't in a Relationship, something he pointed out to her after he dragged her between two stalls to make out for a while. She'd known he was drunk – he was always drunk on a party night.

The knock on the door was the last thing Barney needed at God-knows-what-o'clock the next morning. His head was pounding already, never mind a potentially pissed-off neighbour wanting to give him an earful about something he didn't remember doing and probably hadn't done anyway. Besides, Clint could answer the door. He had legs that still worked.

"Clint, answer the fucking door," he ground out, not caring if the pillow muffled his words – his brother would get the gist. Seconds later, he heard the opening of said door, followed by the sound of heavy boots on wood (or was that still his head? Christ, he was never challenging Piotr again…).

"Barton?"

Confused, Barney dared to remove his face from his pillow, looking round and blinking at what appeared to be a taller version of his brother, bow in hand, quiver strapped to his back. He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "When did you grow up?"

"What?"

Deciding this conversation would be better had on his back, Barney rolled over – and landed solidly on the floor. Throwing out a few cuss words did nothing to ease the pain in his head, nor did it help when he finally took stock of his situation: here he was, hung-over and stark naked, staring up at Buck bloody Chisholm. "What do you want?" he muttered, dragging his bed covers down.

"Where's your brother?"

So Chisholm had let himself in? Wonderful. "Don't know."

"Well when was the last time you saw him?"

Battling through his fuzzy head, Barney attempted to stand. "I dunno, last night some time? I got back late, don't remember much after Piotr fucking conned me."

Buck smirked, glancing over at the other bed. "He didn't show up for training. Thought he might've tried sleeping in, too, but I guess I was thinking of the wrong Barton."

The finger was the only adequate response Barney could think to give. He was more concerned with trying to find his boxers (how the fuck had he gone to bed with no boxers?). "Ask Duquesne," he grumbled. "Thought the two of you shared him now, anyway."

"I have, I asked everyone – no-one's seen him." He frowned. "You realise his bed hasn't been slept in?"

Finally retrieving his underwear, Barney glanced over at it. "How do you know?"

"Because it's fucking cold, moron."

"Well maybe he was at some chick's trailer then."

"Do you even listen, Barton? I just said, ain't nobody got a clue where he is!"

Barney froze, Buck's words finally getting through. "You mean my brother's missing?"

"You gonna help me find him or what?"

And that was how Barney ended up stumbling round the circus at five to ten in the morning, suddenly less hung-over than earlier and trying to keep up with a pissed-off archer whilst searching for one more. "Maybe he passed out in a ditch," he suggested, "or wandered into town by accident and got lost –"

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that."

"You think it's something worse?"

Chisholm scoffed. "He's a star attraction with a popular circus. Desperate people ain't always stupid – you should know that."

"Fuck you very much."

"If we don't find him, we go into town, start knocking a few heads if we have to."

"Won't Carson be pissed?"

"Carson'd do the same, just less efficiently."

They eventually came to the last trailer, which happened to be Carson's. Barney walked round it once, even braving the unpleasant feeling his head gave him to check underneath, but there was no sign of his brother. "Shit," he spat, returning to Chisholm. "Where the fuck is he?"

"Did you look there?" He gestured with his bow, indicating the hedge that ran behind the caravan. It wasn't particularly high, and they both managed to jump (or fall) over it. Barney dug the heels of his palms into his eyes as a wave of nausea rolled over him, vaguely hearing Buck curse loudly. This was turning into a very bad – "Barton!"

"Huh?" Chisholm's voice came from his left, and Barney looked round to find him crouched by a body. At first, he thought it was fake, one of the dummies the circus carried around with them; then he recognised the clothes, the hair, and eventually, underneath all the bruises and blood, his brother's face. "Aw, fuck, no!"

Buck was crouched beside Clint's prone form, fingers pressed to his neck. "He's alive," he announced, though the thought had never even crossed Barney's mind. "We need to get him to Dolly."

"Dolly?" he repeated as Buck slung his bow across back. "She's just a nurse!"

"She's all we got!" Slipping his arms underneath the boy, he lifted him up effortlessly, and Barney cringed at how limp Clint was. "Barton! Get a move on. Go warn her. We'll meet in Big Top."

Running was something Barney had always been good at, for various deep-seated childhood reasons. He may not have been as fit as he could be, and he was almost ready to collapse by the time he reached Dolly's caravan, but he finally brought her to Big Top at the same time as Buck, who had alerted Carson. Dolly's face was mortified, her frown deepening the more she looked over Clint's injuries. "Several broken bones, severe bruising, probable concussion, and I have a horrible feeling there's internal bleeding. I can't treat him here, Carson - he needs a hospital." Carson nodded grimly, turning to phone an ambulance. Dolly shook her head, eyes shining. "Who would do such a thing?"

Barney didn't really consider that question until hours later, when the doctors finally told him what was happening in the operating theatre. Some of the damage inflicted had apparently been inflicted before, they said, with some older breaks resurfacing. Had Clint recently suffered anything like this? Did he have enemies?

"It's fucking Duquesne!" he hissed when the doctors eventually left. "I'd bet my right arm on that!"

"Jacques said he hadn't seen him," Buck said looking sceptical, "and Clint was wearing the same clothes he was in last night. What would he be doing round the back of Carson's tent anyway?"

"I don't know, I'm just – fuck!" He threw his hands up, storming over to the waiting area and dropping into one of the chairs. His life had been fine until now, he didn't need this shit! Trust Clint to attract misfortune the way he did.

Chisholm left after a while ("I need a drink,") leaving Barney to stew in his tumultuous emotions. Patience was not a virtue the Bartons possessed (except for his mother, once upon a time), and he was in half a mind to smash the clock on the wall, or the perpetually whirring vending machine, or the bloody uncomfortable chairs, or Jacques Duquesne's ugly-ass face – and then the doctor came out, and Barney resisted the urge to snap long enough to hear the words 'critical' and 'stable'; he didn't remember being taken to his brother's bedside, but that's where he ended up, staring down at an unconscious teenager that looked like he was plugged in to too many noisy machines.

"Stupid kid." Even after five years, he still couldn't stand up for himself.

* * *

"What the hell were you thinking Clint?"

It had been two days since Clint's admittance to hospital, and having just heard exactly what happened for the first time, Barney was pacing. Buck was sat in the visitor's chair, slightly drunk, and Clint was still bed-ridden; covered in bandages and bruises, he barely looked any better than when they'd first found him – really, the only difference was that now he was conscious.

With consciousness came questions. Barney had been impatient to hear Clint's story, but hadn't expected what he'd been told. Apparently, Clint had seen Jacques bid everyone goodnight before walking off in the opposite direction to his caravan. Curious, he'd followed, arriving in time to see his mentor disappear into Carson's trailer. Turns out Swordsman owed a debt and had fancied using the circus' money to pay it off, until Clint had caught him stealing. He'd threatened to call the police, at which point Jacques had laid into him, and it had been several hours before he was found by his brother and Trick Shot.

Naturally, Barney digested this less than gracefully – but after a few long minutes of cursing Jacques Duquesne's name, he'd suddenly rounded on his brother. "You were gonna call the cops? Really?"

Clint frowned. "Well yeah. He was stealing, Barney – that's against the law."

"You were going to call the police on a fellow carnie, Clint! Your own fucking mentor!"

"No need to shout," Buck growled.

"What was one of the first lessons you learnt at Carson's, Clint? Huh? No calling cops on friends!"

"But it was Carson's money –"

"So tell Carson, don't go dragging outsiders into this! You even said he asked you for help – why didn't you bloody help him?"

"Help him steal to fuel a life-ruining addiction? Why would I wanna do that?"

"Because he's your mentor!"

"And?"

Barney stopped pacing, staring first at Clint and then at Buck. The older archer sighed. "You're always loyal to your mentor, kid. Basic knowledge."

Clint bowed his head, staring at the sheets. "You're siding with him?" he asked in a small voice.

His brother scoffed. "I'm laying into Duquesne the next chance I get. He ain't my mentor."

"You're always complaining about Harrison!"

"Yeah, but I'd never hand the guy over." His little brother was confused, but Barney understood better than he thought. How easy was it to be unconditionally loyal to someone who'd treated you the way Jacques had treated Clint, the way their own father had treated them both? It was one of the things Barney didn't totally resent at the circus – knowing that everyone had your back in turn for you watching theirs. That was something he'd never had before. It wasn't as easy as he'd expected.

After a long silence, Clint glanced at Buck, timidly asking, "Will Carson let you be my mentor after this?"

Buck shrugged lopsidedly, his words drowsy when he answered. "I dunno, kid. I'll ask when I get back."

"Wait, we're not taking him back yet?" Barney asked.

Standing slowly, Chisholm shook his head. "No. We ain't going anywhere. Keep him out of trouble 'til it's all good."

"Are you going to tell Carson?" Clint wanted to know as they made to leave.

"Sure," he said dismissively. "Leave it to us."

"Barney?" He stopped in the doorway. "Aren't you gonna stay?"

"Got work to do, baby bro. Need to keep Harrison happy." Perhaps it was a bit of a low blow, but he wanted to make a point.

Carson was sympathetic to Clint's request, and agreed to switch up the acts to accommodate the necessary changes. Things between the brothers also changed: Barney continued to work while Clint healed and returned to training, but now they hardly spoke. They were both too busy Barney claimed (it wasn't that easy to explain why he'd been spending less time with Alizeh, though). Things came to a head when Harrison had an accident that, unfortunately, took his life. The way Barney saw it, he had a new lease of freedom – the way Carson saw it, he had a new main handyman. An argument ensued, one that culminated in Barney storming back to his caravan after having mouthed off quite eloquently at the old manager. He didn't want to be a carpenter anymore, Carson knew that! He'd let Clint move up into the big time, so why couldn't Barney? It was another case of people trying to split them both up. Time to come up with a new plan for life.

"The Army?"

"Yep." He was already packing, throwing all his clothes into a tatty bag. "I saw a recruitment place in the last town we were at. Say you're eighteen and we'll both get –"

"Wait, what? You want me to go too?"

Surprised as he was by Clint's question, Barney didn't stop clearing the caravan of his belongings. "Well yeah, dipshit. Who else would I be on about?"

Clint licked his lips. "I don't think I want to join the Army."

He laughed. "What? Why not?"

"Because I like it here."

"You like being beaten up every time you do something wrong? Being constantly on the move, living in this shitty excuse for a trailer?"

"I like archery," he said solemnly, "and I like the people here. They're family."

Barney threw his bag onto his bed. "So what does that make us then, huh?" he demanded. "We're brothers, Clint – blood. None of these tossers know you the way I do."

"But Barney –"

"Who stuck by you when Duquesne was giving you grief? Who got you to this damned circus anyway? Who defended you when other kids said shit about you and picked on you 'cause you were small?" He swallowed. "Who stopped Dad from beating you black and blue when Mom couldn't?"

Clint actually cringed. "I know, Barney… but I'm not a kid anymore. I can take –"

"Don't even think about finishing that sentence, 'cause it's a fucking lie."

His brother glared at him. "I was going to say I can take responsibility for my own decisions."

"Fine." Zipping up the bag, Barney tossed it over his shoulder and headed out. "The next bus leaves in thirty minutes. I'm getting on it, with or without you." He didn't wait for a reply, just stepped out into the big wide world, and as he left the big tops, colourful stalls and worn-out caravans behind, there was a great pleasure in giving it all the finger; and who cared if no-one saw him go? The quicker and quieter his exit the better, just like the first time he ran away.

Clint would come, he was sure of it. Standing at the bus stop as dusk coaxed the world into darkness, Barney tapped his feet impatiently, swapping his bag from shoulder to pavement then opposite shoulder, absently thinking he should've brought something to carve out. He had his carving knife, and knew that Clint would take his bow with him regardless of how odd it looked. His brother would do well in the army – he'd ace sniper training hands down. He was smart, too, so he'd easily learn how to use a gun over a bow. Or maybe he'd go in for officer? Barney knew that line was out of the question for himself, being probably the polar opposite of what they'd want in an officer. The idea of answering to his baby brother's orders made him balk, too, but he knew Clint: the kid would choose sniper school, just as he would arrive in time for the bus. After all, it was Clint who'd said that the two of them stuck together. "Always have, always will."

The bus swung into view, headlamps casting a piercing light over the empty pavement, making Barney squint as he looked too close. He turned, wondering where Clint was, and heard the bus stop in front of him. The doors opened, ready and waiting. "You getting on?"

"Yeah…" In a minute.

"So get on."

He spared the driver a sullen glance. "I'm waiting for someone."

"How long they gonna be?"

"Any time now."

Barely a minute later, the driver called out again. "Listen, either you get on or you don't. I ain't waiting for this guy, and I got places to be."

"Alright! Keep your wig on." He glanced down the road – empty; put his foot on the step and looked again, lingering as long as he could – still no sign of Clint. Barney paid his fare in silence, throwing his bag onto an empty seat and dropping down next to it, jaw tight, fists clenched, and watched the desolate bus stand slide from view before settling back to take a nap and forget again (if he'd looked a little longer, he wouldn't have missed the boy with a bow and quiver strung across his back, bag in hand, waving frantically at the vanishing vehicle).

'Always'? Just another Clint Barton lie.


	3. Good Guy

**AN: **From this moment onwards, the timeline has been thrown out the window! It's gone, for many reasons. The characters can be as old or young as you see fit. :-) Also, I realise that I've deviated quite heavily from the comics now, partly by accident, but I was never a fan of Clint as Goliath... please don't kill me!

* * *

The Other Barton Boy

**3. Good Guy**

Sniper school was never something he had intended to take seriously – not until he discovered he was good at it. Nobody could quite place why, but the way Corporal Charles Barton hit ninety-nine per cent of his targets with fatal accuracy was… odd, if not a little frightening. The guy was just one huge ball of pent-up energy to some, only recently promoted and still new to the NCO role. He angered quickly, his mood flipping faster than a spinning coin on some occasions, a trait some considered risky in a marksman; yet there was no denying his skill. Again, like a coin changing between heads and tails, this tireless man would lie stock still, rifle in hand, barely breathing as he sighted whatever target he'd been told to shoot, and within seconds he'd be on his feet again, ready to move on to the next. An impatient sniper? Some didn't like it, but then they knew Corporal Barton didn't care. If he did, they'd be in a different unit.

If anybody knew even the slightest thing about Corporal Barton, it would be Sergeant Doyle. It wasn't like they had told each other their favourite colours or anything, but Barton actually talked to Doyle. Some said it was because they were both snipers, others said it was because he was kissing ass, but Doyle suspected he was the only one who knew the real reason – hell, even then he wasn't totally sure. "You remind me of my brother," the Corporal had said one day, and though Doyle had gently tried to get more out of him than that, he'd not had much luck. One year with this guy and he didn't know anything about his brother besides the fact that he'd been at the circus with Barton and was a few years younger. As far as Doyle could tell, it was a sore spot, and in his experience sore spots were best left alone (especially with Barton).

So he got a surprise one day when his Corporal, completely out of the blue, said, "My brother should be here, you know."

"Oh yeah?" Doyle wasn't sure what to say. Sat on the edge of a rooftop in middle-of-nowhere Afghanistan, watching other soldiers relax below them, it was fair to say he was caught off-guard.

Barton nodded, smirking bitterly. "It was always me and him, y'know? Right from the day our parents died, where I went he went. Idiot got too hung up over the circus though, probably thought he'd ruin them if he left."

"Why'd he think that?"

For a minute, Barton said nothing, and Doyle wondered if he'd pushed his luck too far; then: "He was one of their precious stars. Had a routine with this other guy, spangly outfit and all that shit. Loved the attention."

Doyle frowned. "So if he was happy, why should he be here?"

"Well apart from the fact that I'm here, he's a damn good shot." He turned to the Sergeant with a glint in his eye. "You think I'm a good sniper? My baby brother'd easily give me a run for my money."

"Seriously?" He nodded. "Jesus, you Bartons made by robots or something?"

"Hey, I ain't a mutant!"

Doyle held his hands up. "Didn't say you were." The Corporal just grunted, setting his gaze into the desert landscape before them and letting silence settle between the dust. After a short while, though, he spoke up again.

"Ever wonder what that'd be like? Fighting mutants?"

His companion gave him a dark chuckle. "Leave that shit to the FBI, that's what I say."

"What, you don't think it'd be a challenge?"

"That's exactly what I think it'd be, only ten times worse."

Barton snorted, shaking his head. He shifted where he sat so that he was facing the other NCO, a familiar look in his eyes. "So say a mutant jumps up now and grabs me from behind, starts dragging me away – you'd just do nothing?"

"Aw, come on, Barton, not this!" Doyle groaned, dropping his head into his hands.

"No, seriously, what would you do?"

He shrugged. "Shoot it in the head."

"What if it used me as a body shield?"

He stared. "Are you on crack or something?"

"Come on, tell me!"

Sergeant Doyle rolled his eyes. "I'd negotiate, or at least try to until someone else could take him out. Then we'd all skip over to the Sergeant Major, get a pat on the back, maybe a medal or something, I dunno."

Barton stared at him for a long time, the corners of his mouth quirked upwards. "You should've said negotiations first." Doyle threw his hands up as his Corporal laughed, only slightly tempted to push him off. Silence soon returned though, comfortable despite the heat. "FBI, huh?" Barton murmured. Doyle didn't think anything of it at the time, but when later asked why he thought Barton had quit he considered that conversation more carefully.

"Maybe he wanted something more exciting," became his generic answer. Doyle knew better than most that Corporal Charles Barton was a restless soul – he hoped that whatever the guy was looking for, he found it before he got himself killed.

* * *

Even as a member of the Army, Barney Barton had found very little occasion to wear a suit, but that was what the FBI had required, so that was what he acquired (asking a hotel maid how to tie a tie had probably been the most embarrassing moment of his life). Suits made him feel uncomfortable – there was a weight to them, an expectation that he didn't quite adhere to. What carnie, besides maybe someone like Carson, would ever have cause to wear a suit? It had been bloody expensive, too, not to mention the shoes. But despite his nerves, they deemed him acceptable, and Barney became Agent Charles Barton of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He was soon handed his first assignment.

"A bodyguard?"

His superior, a guy called Arterton, nodded. "Something light, to get you settled," he explained. "Your charge goes by the name of Marko. He's a wealthy man, big setup and all that, but it's all funded by criminal activity."

Barney smirked. "So he's like some kind of mastermind or something?"

"Apparently he likes the term 'overlord'."

"Jesus."

"You're job is to learn what you can about his activities and report back to us until we have substantial evidence to go in ourselves." He ran through the mission brief, outlining places and people considered important before dismissing Barney with a week's preparation time. They stuck him in some posh hotel, the first time he really appreciated the suit get-up – he would never have looked right stood in the lobby in his ordinary clothes. The room itself, though… He smiled. He could get used to this.

The week long wait, however, was not something he could deal easily with. Life at the carnie had ingrained a short sleep cycle into him, so he couldn't help but wake up early and start feeling tired incredibly late, which lead to a few problems: the biggest was the fact that he had a lot of free time on his hands and very little to do with it. He read and re-read his mission brief until even the tiniest of details were ingrained into his memory, then sat on his bed, watched some shitty television, drank some beer, tried to get his head around the new mobile phone he'd been given, went out and explored the city as much as he could without getting lost, eaten as expensively as he dared, then finally ended up lying on his bed staring at the ceiling, at which point he gave in and let his thoughts run free…

What would the folks at Carson's say if he told them he was in the fricking FBI? Would they care? Did he care, for that matter? Well, maybe in regards to Clint he did, and possibly Alizeh. He had no idea where they were right now, or what they were doing, really. Clint may have his own act for all he knew, and oh, wouldn't his baby brother love that? His own trailer, the entire audience focused on him, his own training routines (and no more beatings) – it was what he'd wanted after all, and now he wouldn't have Barney dragging him down. Then again, maybe he was too battered to perform on his own. Alizeh had never had the same problems, but that was because of her skills; hitting a contortionist could potentially put them out of action, and putting them out of action reduced their efficiency, which in turn reduced their usefulness. It was a vicious chain, and looking back, Barney resented it. Getting out was the best decision he'd ever made.

But he was lonely. Sure, he hadn't been super popular in the Army, but at least he'd had people like Doyle – and as soon as he worked out how to use this fucking phone, that man was going into his contacts. He hated that Doyle had to remind him of Clint so much, but it was only a fraction of the reason Barney had stuck around the guy. He had genuinely considered Doyle a friend, and it was with a horrible realisation that he admitted the Sergeant may be his only true friend in the world, and even then it wasn't a very deep friendship. Had Alizeh been his friend? Debatable. Was Clint his friend? Probably not anymore.

On his last evening in the hotel, Barney went out for dinner, because hell, why not? He forgot about being lonely and enjoyed the food and drink, not even looking at how much he was paying, before strolling back and deciding to sleep until he had to leave his room – whereupon he was strongly reminded about being somewhat alone. Because, when he thought about it, he'd always shared a room with someone (more or less), whether it had been with his brother or the rest of his unit, and after a week of minimal human interaction Barney was beginning to crave company. He tried to settle himself with the thought that tomorrow he'd actually be able to talk to someone, but with the chances of that someone being a total asshole fairly high the thought was hardly reassuring. He resisted admitting to missing Clint, but thinking of his brother and the life he'd chosen to stick with inevitably led to thoughts about another figure from that time in his life.

By morning, all thoughts of Alizeh were gone (he never remembered falling asleep to the image of her dazzling smile), and Barney Barton was ready for action. He dressed; he checked out; he got the train; he took a bus; he walked up to the ridiculously dressed chauffeur he was supposed to meet; he gawped at the fucking huge mansion he was taken to; he was interviewed; he got the job. 'Action', as it turned out, was incredibly tedious.

"We don't actually get much action round here." Barney was being given a tour of the mansion by the head of security, an older guy named Churchill ("No relation to the British feller", whoever he was). It was easily the biggest house Barney had ever set foot in, and he was equal parts awed and overwhelmed by the sheer size of it. How did anyone guard something this big? "Honestly, most action you'll probably see happens at poker night. To say the lads get rowdy is a hell of an understatement, I tell you."

"Lads?"

"The rest of the team." Churchill snorted. "What, you didn't think you'd be guarding this place all by yourself now, did you?"

"Oh – uh, no, it's just that I hadn't seen anyone else, so I just thought…" There was a peculiar surge of relief at the knowledge that there were more guards, one he didn't recall having ever felt. He wondered if they'd give him a sniper rifle.

It wasn't until the end of the tour that Barney finally laid eyes upon his target-come-charge. Well, in an indirect way. Watching as his eyes widened at the portrait, Churchill laughed. "You didn't hear this from me, but Marko's a self-indulgent son of a bitch. Don't question him and you'll be fine."

"…sure." Barney was still staring, slack-jawed, at the twice-his-height gold-framed portrait hung on the gleaming white wall in front of him. It seemed at odds with the rest of the modern building, which was entirely white and smoother than Alizeh's – but then he knew nothing about buildings or paintings and shit, so who was he to say what was odd and what wasn't?

"Ah – speaking of," Churchill muttered, and jerked his head towards the large, central staircase.

A squashed-looking, balding man in a suit with a red bow tie was pottering down, followed by four bodyguards and a very nervous man with a clipboard – all twice his height. He was scowling at the clipboard man, obviously displeased with what was being said, then suddenly began raving about how he "didn't have to deal with this shit", and wasn't that what he paid "those good-for-nothing monkey-ass punks" to do, and it was all a waste of his time "unless it gets me money, shit-stick!"

As poor clipboard dude slunk away (leaving a trail of sweat behind, Barney would have bet) Churchill clapped him on the shoulder. "If I were you, son, I'd keep your mouth shut for a minute." Then he stepped out to intercept a torpedo-like Marko. "Mr Marko sir?"

Marko skidded to a halt, the bodyguards behind him almost toppling over him in surprise. "What?" he snapped.

Churchill gestured to Barney. "This is Bernard Carson, sir, the new protection detail."

"Great." Without even a glance in Barney's direction, Marko sped off again. The men on his tails managed to exchange a few nods in his direction before hurrying after him, but otherwise it was as if Barney hadn't been stood right there.

Next to him, Churchill was chuckling. "You'll get used to it."

"How many times bigger did he demand this picture to be?"

The old chief laughed. "Four. They made it two and a half."

The tour was rounded off with a visit to the staff wing, where Barney would stay with the other guard staff. Churchill handed him his key, told him when dinner would be out, and left him to it. After he'd unpacked he joined the rest of them in the staff dining area, meeting some of his co-workers as well as the cleaning, cooking and gardening staff, who all lived on-site. They all welcomed him, jokingly warned him what not to do, dropped some gossip on Marko, and even handed him several bottles of beer throughout the course of the evening. He remembered as much of what they told him as he could, sticking it in an email to send back to Arterton before he went to bed. It wasn't quite the mutant-busting extravaganza he'd originally thought it would be, but it was still exciting (and ten times better than lying behind some dust-covered mound staring at who-knows-what through a scope, ass being baked by the sun), and sleep came slower than he expected. When it did come, it was blessedly dream-free.

Churchill 'buddied' him up with a guy named Joseph Lestrange so he was comfortable with the shifts and locations of his new job. A southerner, Lestrange had strong views on pretty much anything, a deep sense of self-belief, and a penchant for spiced chicken that Barney couldn't quite fathom (despite what Lestrange said, there was such a thing as too much heat), but his sense of humour and love of alcohol convinced Barney that the two could be good friends. He followed him around for a week before being assigned his own shifts, and then his real work began. Marko was a busybody – he liked to go places to announce his wealth, remind people that they knew him, and sniff out a way to earn money, be that illegally or, once in a blue moon, legally; none of the staff questioned it, so neither did Barney. He paid attention to what he saw, making mental notes that he transferred into written ones at the end of the day: contacts, cards, locations, anything else that sounded like it could be useful. It helped that the 'overlord's' personal assistant followed them practically everywhere they went. The night when he asked about the trembling man, Lestrange and the others laughed.

"That's Quivering Quentin!" Joe told him. "He's been Marko's busy-body since any of us have been here, and the boss has reduced him to the wreck you see today."

"How come?"

"Marko don't take no for an answer," Giorgio explained. "Ol' Quentin, it's his job to get people to say yes – which they don't always do."

Lestrange shook his head. "Poor sod's a bag of nerves."

Barney saw a lot of Quivering Quentin, and quickly realised he would have access to some of Marko's more personal details – bank statements, credit cards, other such important documents that a criminal mastermind (sorry – overlord) wouldn't want anyone to see. Whenever he was part of Marko's protection, Barney spent half the time watching his employer and the other half watching the personal assistant. It proved useful.

All in all, his first job had quite a few unexpected turns in store for him; he hadn't, for one, considered the possibility that he might make friends on the escapade. It wasn't like they were ever going to be close friends, though. As far as Joe and the others knew, his name was Bernie Carson, and he was just some guy from Iowa who wanted money from a relatively easy job. They welcomed him into the fold, telling him stories of times when Marko had taken them to meetings or exchanges, of long-lost heroes who'd made the ultimate sacrifice, times when it had gone wrong, shown him war wounds, dished up gossip about the boss himself… and Barney recorded more than a few of those stories, later typing up transcripts to email back to Arterton. Did he feel remorse for betraying and lying to these new comrades of his? No – he was just doing his bloody job. When it was all over, he'd put it behind him and move on, because that was what Barney Barton did. So when part of his past suddenly and very unexpectedly hit him in the chest (literally), Barney didn't quite know what to do.

Barney had been working undercover for close to a month now, emailing as much as he could to Arterton in his spare time. The returning emails had seemed promising, and the latest one had informed him that he may be pulled out in the next week or two. Whilst patrolling the perimeter that night, he was in high spirits – finally he was doing something worthwhile, with people who appreciated his efforts. That had been more than he got in the circus, and maybe even in the Army too. On top of that, he was earning quite a bit for this. Add that to what he'd received from his time in service, and he –

Something long and thin buried itself squarely into his ribcage with a dull 'thunk' and a whisper of air. Barney staggered back from the force, seeing the arrow sticking out of his chest before the world tipped backwards and he was staring at the sky. When the pain spread out, the truth registered with it: there was an arrow in his chest. He'd been shot by a freaking Robin Hood! If he hadn't been sprawled out on the earth coughing like a plague-ridden hag, Barney would've been hell-bent on tracking down the bastard and sticking one of his precious arrows up his butt-hole. What kind of idiot robbed a guarded mansion using a bow and arrow?

"Barney?"

This asshole knew him? But Barney could only think of two people who wielded – oh Jesus fucking Christ. 'Robin Hood' popped into his vision. Barney was pissed.

"Shit," Clint breathed, fingers hovering over the quickly growing blood stain on Barney's shirt (and if that didn't come out, Clint was buying him two new ones). His brother grabbed his shoulders. "Barney? Barney it's me, Clint – can you hear me? Say something!"

It took a while to get past the blood in his throat, but eventually Barney managed to come up with something appropriate for the situation. "Fuck."

"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" another voice growled. Clint looked away, and though Barney tried to get a look too, moving meant sending some pretty nasty sensations through each and every muscle in his chest, as well as temporarily preventing him from breathing. All he could do was listen to the conversation and work out who it was his brother was answering to.

"I was just getting my arrow back, but –"

"So get it and let's go."

"I can't."

"Then leave it and haul ass!"

"Buck, it's Barney! I just shot my brother!"

Buck? As in, Buck Chisholm? Sure enough, Barney soon found himself staring up at the man known as Trick Shot, and wondered which was worse: the agony he was in thanks to his halfwit brother's arrow, or knowing that Chisholm had made his brother shoot him in the first place. Okay, so they hadn't actually known it was him, but still. "Asshole," he grunted.

"Barney, I'm so sorry," Clint was saying, but Barney was more focused on the twist of Chisholm's lips at the insult. "Just hang in there – you'll be fine."

"Touching little reunion," Buck sneered, "but we got a mansion to steal from. Let's go." He disappeared from view.

It was at that moment that Barney's vision decided to take a break, so he didn't see when his baby brother turned round to stare at his mentor in shock. "No," he heard him say, and Barney struggled against unconsciousness to witness the drama unfolding before him. Clint had said no, his brain was telling him; he'd said no to someone!

"What did you say?"

Barney opened his eyes to see Clint shaking his head. "I'm not leaving him."

"You crazy, kid?" Chisholm snapped. "The longer we hang around here, the sooner they realise something ain't right! We're running out of time to –"

"Barney's running out of time!"

"You had no problem taking out the others!"

"He's my brother!" As darkness descended over Barney again, his brother's words made his breathing hitch, and the hole in his front stopped hurting for a second. It wasn't that those words made him feel proud, or happy, or whatever he used to feel when Clint said such a thing; what Barney wanted to know was why Clint felt the need to say it, why that was so important now and not a few years ago when loyalty had actually mattered to him?

"Fine."

"Buck wait – ah!" There was a familiar sounding 'thunk', followed by a heavy thud next to him. He recognised the sound of Clint groaning. "Buck!"

"Save it, kid. Jacques was right – you wouldn't know loyalty if it kicked you in the nuts."

"You're wrong," Barney whispered. Then the world fell silent. When he woke up, Clint was still next to him, but things were very different; for starters, Clint was standing, and he was not. They were in a hospital. His chest didn't hurt so much – maybe because there was no arrow sticking out of it. He was tired, groggy, and still a little pissed off at his reckless brother.

"Take it easy Barney," Clint said as he struggled to sit up. "You don't wanna pull your stitches. The doctors'll get mad."

Barney laughed weakly. "Don't give a shit," he croaked, and let himself sink back against the pillows. "What the hell, Clint?"

"I'm sorry." He was getting tired of hearing that. "Buck just told me to take out the perimeter guards. We had no idea you'd be there. How could we?" The last part was a low mutter that Barney almost missed entirely.

"Hey – you were the one who ditched me for your carnie chums," he spat. "Not like I could've written to you anyway."

"Do you have any idea who you were working for Barney?"

Of course he did. "Do you?" Clint frowned. "What, you seriously expect me to believe Chisholm was any better than fucking Duquesne? Why the hell ain't you at Carson's anyway?"

"You haven't heard?"

Barney scoffed. "Oh, sure. This is someone who is clearly in the know!"

Pulling up the visitors chair (and no matter how hard he tried to disguise it, Barney caught the eye-roll), Clint took a seat, leaning back tentatively to avoid aggravating his bandaged shoulder. He spoke quietly. "A few months after you left, Carson got sick. It happened real fast, and before we knew it he was gone. Everyone was upset, of course. He was a good man. But, one problem was that he hadn't told anyone what was to happen when he passed on; suddenly, we were left without a manager, and people started arguing. That's when Samuel stepped up – sort of. He pointed out that he was kind of the only one who knew even remotely how to run a circus, and that he was the one Carson's contacts were familiar with. He organised a funeral too, so everyone sort of accepted him as leader." He pulled a face. "Didn't last long. Nobody could stand him; a lot of us left pretty early on. Alizeh and her family were some of the first to go." Barney kept his face blank, so Clint shrugged his good shoulder and carried on. "Finally, Buck and I packed up and quit too. He said he knew how to make money, and that I could tag along. All I had to do was keep my head down and do what he said."

"So you stand up to Duquesne but cave in when it comes to Chisholm?"

His lips twitched into a brief, wry smile. "I remembered: stay loyal to your mentors."

"Remembered what happened when you said no, more like."

"I thought you were in the Army?"

Barney stiffened. Question Time had begun too soon. "I was."

"What happened?"

"Passed sniper training, made Corporal, did my service, got bored, quit."

"And ended up working for Marko as Bernard Carson?"

"Yeah." Any other brother would have probably told him the truth. The fact that Barney kept his lips sealed had nothing to do with the promise of silence he'd made to the FBI.

"Barney, do you have any idea what Marko does? How he's become so rich?"

He speared Clint with a glare as sharp as the arrow that he'd embedded in his chest earlier on. "You know what hypocrite means, right?"

His brother rubbed the back of his head. "I didn't have a choice."

He smirked, ignoring the pain. "Bullshit."

"It's not bullshit! What would you have done if you were me?"

"Joined the Army."

"I tried!" Barney stilled in bed, keeping his gaze steady and focused on the plain white wall in front of him. All the walls seemed to be white these days. "I never ditched you for the circus, Barney – I did change my mind. I just… I changed it too late; I got to the bus stop as the bus was pulling away. He didn't see me, I guess."

Was Clint lying to make him feel better? Barney wasn't so sure any more. There was a time he'd easily been able to call Clint out on his fibs, but after spending so much time apart and pushing his brother from his thoughts, he couldn't work it out. "Why you here?"

Clint looked baffled. "You're my brother, and I hurt you. I wanted to make sure you were okay." His tone said he thought Barney was being stupid. That was something he recognised at least.

"And Chisholm?"

"He shot me and left. Could be anywhere by now. If I see him… I see him."

Feeling the gentle pull of sleep at the corners of his eyes, Barney shook his head sluggishly, letting out a soft chuckle despite the discomfort. "Finally standing up for yourself," he muttered. "Took you long enough."

"Barney…"

"Get outta here, Clint." He yawned. "Go play Robin Hood for the good guys."

"Are you gonna stay working for Marko?"

"Dunno."

"Will we see each other again?"

"Hope not."

Maybe the words had been harsh, and he didn't need his eyes open to know they'd stung – but he was tired, of Clint and his naivety too, and couldn't risk his brother finding out about the FBI. Besides, said baby brother was just beginning to act his age (whatever that was now). Maybe the days of 'always' were over.

* * *

Released from hospital at last, Barney hadn't been too surprised to find Arterton waiting for him outside. They drove to a small diner not too far away, where his superior paid for his coffee and told him about the upcoming plans.

"We'll wait until you're fully fit before sending you back on duty. As far as Marko and his associates know, you were killed with the other guards on patrol –"

"Wait, wait – others?"

Arterton nodded. "Yes, others. You weren't patrolling alone, you know that."

Barney paled. He remembered Chisholm saying something about others now, and tried to remember who had been on that shift with him. "Who?"

"We're not sure." A small crease had taken up residence between Arterton's eyebrows as he studied Barney closely. "Why?"

"Because I'm a morbid son of a bitch who wants to laugh at their condition. Why do you think?"

His superior shrugged. "I'll see if we can get a list." He sipped his drink before continuing. "As I said, as far as Marko is concerned, Bernard Carson disappeared. They'll never find a body."

"Yeah, that's great. When can I get back out?" Barney leant back in his chair, feeling the metal frame against his shoulder blades. He'd gotten seriously bored in the hospital, and, especially now that he'd had a taste of being undercover, wanted nothing more than to be out and about again with a task to accomplish. He wasn't useful to anyone in this state, and he didn't like being useless.

Arterton twisted his hands. "Whenever you're physically ready."

"I'm ready."

"Barton, you just got out of hospital."

"And?"

"And so you need time to recuperate, let your body get back up to strength."

"How do you know I'm not back up to strength?"

He raised his hands. "This is not something I'm prepared to argue about. Now either you let me finish explaining this to you, or I keep you off duty longer than necessary." Barney had the sense to bite his tongue. "Thank you. Now, your hospital fees have been paid for, so you won't need to worry about them, as are your hotel payments. When you're ready to go back into field work, we'll start you off on a similar level to give you time to adjust, then we'll monitor your progress from there."

* * *

During the time he was off-duty "for recuperative purposes", Barney heard nothing from Clint – which was good, he convinced himself, for both of them. In the meantime, he was satisfied to see that Marko had been arrested for major criminal activity (and part of him hoped that the guys he'd met there were let off easier – they'd just been doing their jobs). There was also a lot of hype around a group of costumed people calling themselves the Avengers; Barney figured they were mutants who'd been commissioned to play nice by the government. A photo showed the lot of them in action, and Barney was shocked to see one of them dressed in purple and wielding nothing other than a bow and arrow. So his brother played with muties now? Well, it was better than being Chisholm's lackey, he decided; and, judging by what they got up to, damn better than the FBI, too. Typical.

When missions started coming in again, they were slow, as Arterton had predicted, until a few months later when Barney was given a particularly thick file. "No screwing up on this one," they told him, and that was that. The file contained information about a racket group that was becoming prominent in the underworld. Photographs showed pictures of men shaking hands, bags being passed over, people getting into cars – but there was nothing that could clearly state the evidence as racketeering. At best, it all looked like suspicious activity, and that was where Barney came in: they wanted him to find substantial evidence, and to do that he was going to become one of them.

It was a long job; after weeks of trying, Barney was finally brought into the criminal circle the racketeers were known in. It took a further month before they trusted him enough to let him into the fold, and another month of playing errand boy before someone decided he was good enough to replace a 'desk clerk' that had been killed in a freak exchange. Weekly 'meetings' with Arterton started to become more meaningful, with a few more words than "Nothing this week" passed between them on park benches. It all came to a head when, three months after initially accepting the case, Barney was handed the 'jackpot'.

"Excuse me?"

Lowering the newspaper he'd been reading (Clint and those Avengers were making something of a name for themselves) Barney raised an eyebrow at the nerdy-looking man stood at the counter. Actually, maybe 'nerdy' was an understatement – the guy wore a white lab coat over a blue waistcoat and purple tie, with thick black-rimmed glasses on a snub nose. To top it all off, he was bald, and his head was literally egg-shaped. The guy was clearly cuckoo. "Yeah?"

Wringing his podgy hands together a little gleefully, Egg-Nerd continued. "My name is Elihas Starr. I understand that you, uh, know people who might be able to help me?"

"Depends what you need help with."

"Yes, well, you see, I've built something, and, uh, require some financial aid to put it into place. I believe that is within your capabilities, is it not?"

Barney folded the newspaper away and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk. "I'll need a bit more information than that."

"Such as?"

"What have you built?"

"A laser." He flashed a grin. "I'm a scientist, you see."

"No shit," Barney muttered. "Alright. Where's it going?"

"Space."

He did a double take. "What?"

"It's going to be put into space."

"Listen doc," he said, lowering his voice and putting on a glare. "My friends and I don't like smart-asses who think they can get money by taking the piss. So I'll ask you one last time, and you're going to give me a sensible answer. Where's this bloody laser going?"

"In space."

"Get out."

"Oh but I'm being serious!" Crazy-Egg continued. "I need the money to make sure it gets there, and safely! You see, it's a very powerful laser, but because it was not built, uh, with approval, shall we say, then I cannot simply ask the government for such aid. Besides," he added, "I've always found your kind to be much more… reliant than men in suits."

Eyeing him from where he sat, Barney asked one final question. "What's this laser for?"

Eggy-Head giggled (dear lord). "It's powerful enough to destroy a city! With it, I can control –"

"Get the fuck out."

Interrupted, the mad scientist blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're a nutcase!" Barney told him. "You seriously think we'd give someone money to destroy a fucking city? We're criminals, not world bloody domineers! No deal." He opened up the newspaper again. "Go find yourself a psychiatric ward – and maybe a wig while you're at it."

Professor Nut-job protested, of course, but Barney was a master of tuning out, only glancing up from the paper when the door to his 'office' slammed shut. "Temper, temper," he smirked, believing that to be the last he saw of the loony. One week later, when a small mid-western town was mysteriously incinerated, he decided that maybe something should be done; but what, exactly? His head said he had to tell Arterton and the FBI what he knew, but what would they be able to do? Point a few guns at Eggo and tell him to lie on the ground? They'd be vaporised for sure. What they needed was someone to go up against this freak who wouldn't be in danger from the weapon, who'd be strong enough to take him out and save –

Cue stupidly brilliant idea number one: that mutant crew, the Avengers! They had some metal guy in their roster, right? And some dude with a tough-looking shield, not to mention his brother. With his mind made up, Barney left a message with the racketeers to explain his sudden absence ('family matters – urgent') and set off to find Clint and his Band of Merry Men. He made it two steps out the door when a bin bag exploded next to him.

"Shit!" Peeking out from between his arms, Barney was stunned to see a robot stood at the end of the alley, arm raised and pointed in his direction. "You've gotta be kidding me," he groaned, diving out of the way of a laser-like blast that hit a pile of rotten crates behind him. "Egg-man send you?" Instead of a reply, the machine fired at him again, this time singeing the hair on his head. "Cut that out!" Tugging his gun out of his waistband, Barney made a move. Leaping aside as the robot shot at him again, he zigzagged down the alley until he was close enough to see how the robot was pieced together; then, as another laser missed him by a few centimetres, he fired his own weapon at the machine's head, sticking more bullets into its torso and one into the laser gun for good measure. After a mechanic whine, the robot toppled backwards, smoke streaming from the bullet holes in its metalwork.

Sighing in relief, Barney put away the gun and stood over the 'assassin'. This was a clear message – Eggs-For-Brains was pissed, and from what Barney had seen in life, pissed and crazy were two characteristics that made a bad combination. This asshole needed to be stopped, and soon.

* * *

It was exactly the warm welcome he'd been expecting. The metal one – Iron Man, right? – was stood in front of him, little arm-rocket thing levelled with his head, and a couple of others hovered in the background. He'd be a fool to say he wasn't slightly awestruck by being in their presence (they were every bit as flashy and odd-looking as the papers depicted), but at the same time he was irritated by their narrow-mindedness. All he'd done was ask for Cli – Hawkeye. Was that really so bad as to warrant a weapon aimed at his head?

Finally, after what seemed like a really unnecessary amount of time and a few choice words passed between him and Iron Douche, Hawkeye was led into the foyer – and Barney, weapon aimed at him or no, doubled over with laughter. Sure, he'd seen the pictures of his brother in costume, but it was another thing to see it up close and realise that it was just a modified version of his circus outfit. He doubted Clint had told them, but if he did Barney couldn't imagine how that conversation had gone. As he struggled to catch his breath, he was aware of a heated discussion ahead of him between his brother and Iron Man, and only had sense to try and stop laughing altogether when he heard the words "He's my brother!"

Barney straightened up, smoothing out his shirt and hiding a final grin behind his hand. His eyes locked onto Clin – Hawkeye's, and a smirk slipped out before he could help it. "Still clinging on to the past are we baby bro?"

Hawkeye took a step forward, displeasure written all over his… mask. "Think I remember it better than you do. Or aren't those last parting words as fresh for you as they are for me?"

He rolled his eyes. "This is about business."

"What makes you think we're interested?"

"Hear me out."

Hawkeye snorted. "You were a lacky for Marko, Barney. Why the hell should we do any business with you?"

If only he knew, Barney thought as he scowled furiously at his vigilante-brother. "One, that's a bit hypocritical considering what you were doing at the time, don't you think? Two, I've made something of myself since then, and three, if I was still working for Marko, don't you think I'd be in fucking jail by now smartass? 'Cause that's what happened to him after your little heist –"

"Not here!" Clint hissed, grabbing Barney by his lapel. Barney shoved him off.

"Oh, haven't told your new buddies about your naughty adventures yet?" He chuckled. "Fine, fine, I won't tell them either; actually, how about this: I keep my mouth zipped, and you open wide those astoundingly purple ears of yours, huh?"

His brother's scowl was visible even through the mask, and he stepped back to join his costumed comrades. "Alright. Go ahead."

Barney paused, looking at each one of their masked (sometimes unmasked) faces to be sure he had all their attention. "You guys save people's lives, right? Well then I guess you're pretty beat up about that town that got incinerated recently. See, that's where I come in: I know how it was done, and whodunit, and I'm telling you guys because I know you're the only people who stand a friggin' chance against him. So – whaddya say?"

There was a beat where they all glanced at one another, before setting their gazes on one person. "Hawkeye?"

Hawkeye stared at him with an unreadable expression (damn that mask), and it was a long time before he spoke. "We shouldn't trust him."

The words hit Barney like a slap. "What?" he spat, voice echoing as he stepped forward. "Hang on a fucking –"

"But I think we should listen to him," Hawkeye finished, cutting Barney off pretty effectively. He stared at his brother, unsure what to think. His first words were still being processed.

"Are you sure, Hawkeye?" one of them asked. He was dressed in blue, red and white, with a red and blue shield decorated with one large star. Very patriotic – Captain America then?

Hawkeye nodded once, stiffly. "Yeah, Cap." His eyes never left Barney.

Captain America looked around. "Alright then." He raised a gloved fist into the air. "Avengers, assemble!"

Despite his current emotional turmoil, Barney had to laugh. "Really?" he asked Clint as the Avengers moved past them.

From behind the mask, his brother glared at him. "You're coming with us," he said. "This better not be a joke, Barney."

"Or what, Clint? Gonna shoot me again?" Clint didn't respond. "Thought so."

They lead him out to the jet (and why didn't the FBI have a fucking jet?) where he was sternly told to stay put and not touch anything. To spite them, he pushed the recliner button on his seat, ignoring the disparaging look Hawkeye threw him from across the aisle; but he listened when he was given a brief outline of everyone on the craft: Iron Man, Captain America, Ant-Man, Wasp, Ms Marvel, Scarlett Witch, Black Panther, and Vision. Apparently only one of them was born a mutant, which surprised Barney, and he was a little creeped out to learn that Vision was a robot after what had happened with the last robot he'd met, but other than that he took Hawkeye's word that they were all good people. Truth be told, he felt a little out of place amongst them, partly because he was dressed in just a white shirt and black trousers, but partly because these people were willing to do anything to help strangers without thanks. FBI or not, Barney wasn't quite sure he fit into that category yet.

It was an astonishingly quick flight ("And the army doesn't have some of these because?"), and even after they touched down it didn't take them long to find Egghead. It turned out that Ant-Man sort of knew the guy, and pleaded with the others to let him try and talk to him when they found him.

"Please, Starr – stop this before anyone gets hurt!"

Egghead, stood on top of his laser, pointed dramatically in their direction, a hatred-filled snarl on his lips. "Destroy them!" Well that had gone well.

Ten-minute negotiations down the drain, Barney suddenly noticed that the small group of costumed villains stood around the laser base were now sprinting towards them, and as he heeded his brother's cry of "Barney, get back!", he was treated to a first-hand display of the awesomeness of the Avengers.

Captain America readied his shield; Iron Man took off into the sky; Hawkeye slipped an arrow into his bow; Ms Marvel began to levitate; Wasp shrank down and grew wings; Black Panther crouched low to the ground; Scarlett Witch began to glow; Vision's eyes burned white; and Ant-Man grew until he was towering over everyone, inadvertently blocking out the sun.

As they surged forward to meet the villains, Barney found himself enraptured by their strange little war, and wondered how many like it they'd fought. And the fact that they all seemed to live? That was something special, too. He'd seen a lot of soldiers get badly hurt in Afghanistan, and normally once someone left a unit they weren't seen again, for whatever reason. These guys though, these Avengers, they'd been together for a long time now, and as he watched he understood why: they looked out for each other. Occasionally, Hawkeye would fire an arrow into a bad guy as they were about to land a blow on a team-mate, or Captain America would fling his shield and deflect a potentially fatal shot, and Ant-Man (Giant Man, surely? No ant was that fucking huge) had the lovely ability of squashing anyone if he wanted to. In the FBI, Barney realised, you were on your own.

And that suited him fine. Let Clint run around and play Happy Families with other misfits – at the end of the day, the only person you could really trust was yourself. Other people let you down.

As they slugged away at one another, bad guys and Avengers, Barney spotted something at the top of the laser: Egghead. The loony hadn't moved from his self-important perch, but was grinning manically at some sort of control board, fingers working away like he was in a hurry to do something… the fricking laser, maybe? Cursing himself for his stupidity, Barney jumped into action. "Hey!" he yelled. "The laser! You gotta move the laser!"

The laser itself had begun to whine, a bright red dot appearing in its centre, and Barney could feel his heart kicking his ribs as he desperately tried to get their attention. "The laser!" he yelled again. "The laser's gonna go off! You have to fucking move it!"

Finally, someone heard him – the Scarlett Witch turned in his direction, confusion on her beautiful features. Barney was about to shout at her again when from out of nowhere one of the bad guys smashed his fist into the back of her head. She cried out before falling to the ground, red cape flowing behind her, and Barney knew she wasn't getting up again. Even so, her fall seemed to have triggered something: Iron Man flew up out of the fray, as did Vision and Wasp, and his brother rolled out of the way too. Ant-Man knocked back a group of villains, allowing Black Panther, Captain America and Ms Marvel to start laying into them, and beneath the mechanical roar of the laser powering up, Barney made out the command "Now!"

A small torpedo flew from Iron Man's wrist at the same time as a laser beam from Vision, lots of small 'bolts' from Wasp, and an arrow from Hawkeye – and each one hit the laser. There was a very loud explosion, accompanied with an equally bright flash and large ball of fire, and Barney stood mesmerised as parts of the weapon flew into the air, spinning wildly as gravity reclaimed –

He came to with a violent jerk, and a searing stab of pain engulfed his whole body. It was a while before he realised someone was holding his head, shouting down at him, saying his name repeatedly in a worried tone (worried? When had anyone other than Clint been worried about him?), and then it all started to morph into something resembling sense. "…ine, Barney, you hear? We'll get help – we can get you to a hospital! Just stay with me, okay?"

Barney coughed, grinning despite his predicament. "Blast from the past again, huh?"

He vaguely made out a smile on Hawkeye's face, blurred as his vision was. "Yeah," his brother said. "You can kick me out of your room again."

He chuckled painfully. "Not this time." Because he knew that, whatever had happened to him, it was worse than being shot with an arrow. Much worse.

"Don't talk like that Barney," Clint scolded. "The Quinjet's fast, really fast! We can get you to city in no time!"

Coughing again, Barney grimaced. Dying fucking sucked. "Don't be stupid," he told him. "You know… what happens."

Clint shook his head. "Barney…"

He grinned. "Kept your secrets, right?" he slurred, feeling something wet at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, you did. Thanks Barney."

"Always gotta… look out for you."

"And you always will!"

Oh, Clint. Didn't he know that 'always' was a lie? Barney shuddered, eyes closed now. "No… someone… else's job now." He was cold – was his shirt open? When had that happened? Last time he'd let someone see him shirtless was Alizeh (doctors didn't count – they'd done it without his consent). Where was she now? What did she do after Carson died? This was the one time he could ask about her, what she'd made of herself – it was the only thing he felt like he needed closure on. Did Clint even know about her anymore? Where was Clint, to that matter? All he could see now was this darkness…


End file.
